For the New Year, my resolution is simple. Instead of focusing forward, I’m cleaning off my rearview mirror.
It’s not unhealthy to try to do better. It’s a valid strategy and probably the most common way to minimize the impact of past mistakes, wrongdoings, and bad decisions. But the missteps got me here, no matter how painful they were.
Is it smart? It beats me.
There’s a good chance that many of us have already missed several grabs at the imaginary golden ring. Who’s to say that we get another shot?
I’m opting against the better advice of all the geniuses who tell me not to look back or live in the past. None of us can predict our future, but we already know what we’ve done up to this point. Do not discount the benefits of repairing previous damage. Sometimes, repairs are better—stronger— than the original bodywork.
That’s what they told me that day about thirty years ago: I backed into the grill of a brand new Town of Hampden Crown Victoria police cruiser with my truck in my own driveway.
I had no idea that my co-worker, Officer Jakins, had pulled in to say hello after I stacked a pile of brush in the bed of my Toyota pickup, heading toward the local refuse facility.
I paid for that mistake out of pocket, too embarrassed to bring my insurance agent into the picture.
No one was injured, and the damage was about six hundred bucks. Because of the mistake, I’m a much better driver. I’m more cautious now. I check the mirrors and the area around the vehicle before moving a big load of refuse, even in my dooryard.
It didn’t stop me from backing into my Significant Other’s new car about two years ago, but I had a solid—almost— thirty-year run. I also paid out of pocket for that damage. Thanks to my friend and neighbor, Bob Filanowski, I secured a press-a-dent fella out of New Hampshire to remove the dent without having to repaint the three-day-old car’s rear fender.
For the record, my truck slid sideways on the ice in the yard, so road conditions had a lot to do with the damage; it was still my fault—failure to control my motor vehicle.
That one made me an even better driver. I’m less cocky.
I’ve also done some fantastic stuff, so why shouldn’t I celebrate all of it instead of being pompous and believing that something better is coming?
Even if my best days are behind me, why not relish the joy that permeated my inner being when great things happened? I still have my memory. I mean, so far, I do.
I want to eat healthier this year, but I started that a few weeks ago. I’m still looking back at the beginning of my healthier journey into 2025.
I felt a jumpstart was smarter than waiting for January 1st, so I exercised self-control before Christmas. I’m proud of what I’ve done. Smaller portions are my friend, and I’ve only had two Coca-Colas since December 20th. Impressive? Maybe not to you, but to me, it’s epic.
I was drinking one Coke every two days. It might not sound like much, but that’s five hundred empty weekly calories erased from my diet. I’ll miss the Coke this Year, but we have great memories together. I keep a few around, however. I am not tea-totaling, for that would mean goodbye to my past.
My Dad and I drank Coke with our Italian sandwiches. Whenever I bite into any good sandwich, I have flashbacks to grabbing a cola from the top-loading cooler at a little store on Main Street in Bridgton, Maine, probably around 1970.
If you’ve never reached deep into an icy cold, water-filled galvanized refrigerated bin for a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, feeling the serrated edge of the soon-to-be-removed red cap cut into your hand, your past is nowhere as wonderful as mine.
Couple the feeling of numbed fingers with the permeating eye-watering odor of freshly chopped onions and your Old Man’s hand on your shoulder, and, well, I hope you can think of something better.
I know there must be something to recall that brings you equal joy; focus on that when the bad days come. Tomorrow is never guaranteed to best your past accomplishments.
These thoughts came to me last night. I reflected on the incredibly cool moments I’ve experienced. I’ve no right to expect more, for I have been blessed beyond measure.
Last night, I had a few minutes to sip some musical selections quietly, recalling the day I met Carole King. How that memory rolled into my head, I do not know.
No, she doesn’t remember our meeting, nor should she.
It was 1984, and I was a baby-faced radio news cub going to impromptu press conferences in the Greater Bangor area. King was stumping for a presidential candidate, then-Senator Gary Hart, and she brought her kind demeanor to Maine.
Hart had not yet been spied on the boat called Monkey Business cuddling up with someone other than his spouse, and King was sharing that she supported him because he wasn’t taking money from prominent political action committees. It was a softball story.
In those days, Carole King in Bangor, Maine, was big news on its merit. Certainly, Hart’s proclivities were epically overshadowed by many of his predecessors and, for sure, his successors. I digress.
I’d listened to Carole King’s albums twelve years earlier when I slid “Rhyme & Reasons” from the paper sleeve. “Been to Canaan” was a beautiful song, and while I enjoyed it then, I love it so much more now.
While sitting in downtown Bangor, recording some of the blah, blah, blah that made me detest politics on a whole new level, I felt I was in the presence of musical royalty.
Knowing now, decades later, how many incredible songs King penned throughout the sixties and into the seventies proves I was in the presence of at least the Princess of Lyrical Genius.
In “Been to Canaan,” her words and melody strongly reflect a desire to return in time, maybe to a better place, but certainly to the land of more flagrant innocence. On many days, I do too. So, I don’t mind living in the past rather than making predictions and promises about the year ahead.
The passage of time makes even minor moments more pungent and permeating, like the invigorating smell of those onions and the numbness in a kid’s hand when reaching deep inside a cold tank of refrigerated water while grabbing a cold Coke amidst the swelter of a Maine August day.
I cranked up the dump-recovered, cherrywood cabinet Klipsch floor speakers and dug through my archives, replaying a lot of Carole King last night. Several songs were set on repeat.
Make your plans and resolve to do better, but as we drag our feet into 2025, make sure you don’t forget all the good things that have happened up to midnight tonight. Those feats and foibles are precisely why you became what you are today.
We’ve been to Canaan, and it’s not a bad idea to go back again, even for a few moments a month.
Thanks for following my writing this year. Thank you for supporting me through the generous donations at BuyMeACoffee.
Writing for a living is a ballet of hawking a few books (Thanks to my editor, Michael Steere, for making that happen and to Downeast Books for giving me a place on America’s bookstore shelves) and scratching out the remainder through the kindness of folks who appreciate the daily writing from the Jagged Edge of America.
Truth be told, if I depended on selling books to make a living, I’d have had to sell the dump-recovered Klipsch speakers—and no one wants that.
We should all aim for a happy new year, but remember how we made it this far.
From the Jagged Edge of America, we remain,
TC
&
Ellie